Bound To Silence
by cecelle
Summary: He found himself afraid of hoping too hard, veering wildly between cautious anticipation and abject certainty that this was never going to end. That he would be stuck between these barren walls forever. HGSS. Friendship with a dash of romance. Complete.
1. House Arrest

This story was written for servantofall36 in the Summer 2007 round of the SS/HG gift exchange. The story is complete in three chapters, which will be posted within a week.

Bound to Silence

She walked up the street, looking curiously around her. She didn't quite know what she had expected, but it wasn't this. The windows of the bleak little houses glanced at her with hostile, blind eyes._ Go away. You're not wanted here,_ they seemed to say.

_So this is where he lives, _she thought. As she approached the door, her heart started fluttering like a scared canary. She had, after all, not seen him in over three years. Not since he had rushed past her and Luna, telling them to assist Professor Flitwick, who had collapsed in his office. Without, of course, mentioning the apparently unimportant detail that the tiny Charms professor hadn't collapsed until _after _Snape had pointed his wand at him with a "_Stupefy,_" right before he had gone on to kill Albus Dumbledore and then left Hogwarts forever.

Harry later swore that he'd seen him during the Last Battle, that he had recognized his thin frame and haughty bearing even under the Death Eater hood and mask. She had been too busy dueling to notice. A few days later, she had seen his name in the paper, part of the list of Death Eaters who had been arrested after Riddle's demise, along with the likes of Corbin Yaxley, the Carrow twins, and Draco Malfoy.

Another week later, there had been a short article in the _Prophet_ stating that Severus Snape, former teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had pleaded guilty to all charges laid against him and had waived his right to a trial. She had assumed he had been sent away after that, safely locked up in Azkaban. Until today.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. She didn't have to knock — she knew full well that he wasn't even _able_ to open the door unless she had lifted the wards — but it did seem more polite. Even if this _was _Snape.

She tapped her toe impatiently as she waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Just when she was about to throw politeness to the wind and simply march in, the door opened with a hideous creaking sound, and a pair of malevolent black eyes peered out at her.

"Oh Merlin, they're sending babies now," she heard his contemptuous voice as he turned and limped away from the door.

_A good day to you, too._ Her lips pressing together, she stepped through the door, her hand clasped firmly around the wand in her pocket. "I'm here for the Wolfsbane."

Surreptitiously, she looked around, assessing her surroundings. The dim, shadowy room was empty except for a threadbare sofa and a low table. All the walls, floor to ceiling, were lined with empty bookshelves. It must have been quite a library at some point.

"In the kitchen." He pointed to an open door. "After you."

"No, after you." She wasn't about to turn her back to him. Even though Brewster Withers, her boss for the last eight months, had explained that attacking her and taking her wand would do Snape no good whatsoever. That he knew which side his bread was buttered on. That she would be perfectly safe.

She knew the Ministry well enough by now to not be entirely convinced by his words. It would be wiser to keep Snape where she could see him.

The kitchen was a little better lit, with a window facing what must be the garden. Snape apparently was using the room as a potions lab. Several cauldrons were lined up in a neat row against the back of the counter, like pot-bellied tin soldiers. Jars and bottles took up most of the rest of the available space.

The row of gleaming knives aligned on a square of black velvet made her take pause for a moment. She fervently hoped that Withers was right.

On a scrupulously scrubbed pine table stood the object of her visit — a large crate filled with row upon row of neatly stoppered crystal vials.

"So you've ended up in the Werewolf Registry, have you?" His lips curled disdainfully as he watched her pick up a vial and check the contents. "I'd have expected you to have higher ambitions than to play minder to a pack of snarling monsters. But to each his own."

"They aren't monsters," she flared. "They are _people_."

"And here I thought that the Registry was classified as part of the Magical _Beasts_ Division," he said in a honeyed voice. "I must have been mistaken."

"You're not," Hermione said through clenched teeth. "But I'm trying to change that."

"Ah, yes. The poor, mistreated creatures. How lucky they are to have you."

_Just ignore him, _she thought, biting back a response. _Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing that he's getting to you. That's what he wants. _"The vault is out the back?" she asked in a clipped voice.

He pointed to the door behind him. "Forgive me if I don't come to your assistance," he said, still in the same silky voice. "But seeing as leaving the house would be detrimental to my health…"

Ignoring him, she opened the back door with a lift of her wand. With another swish, the crate of vials rose into the air and floated out ahead of her. The small dirt patch at the rear of the house — she hesitated to call it a garden, now that she'd seen it — contained only the remnants of an old outhouse. This was where she levitated the crate. Inside, the Ministry had installed a Transport Vault. When she had safely maneuvered the Wolfsbane inside, she activated the vault with a muttered spell. A flash of light, and the crate disappeared. Another flash, and a crate of empty vials and assorted potion ingredients had taken its place, along with a large, sealed cardboard box. She lifted the crate and box and turned back to the house.

As she came closer to the open door, she saw that Snape had seated himself on the only chair, his hands clasped behind his neck, his long legs stretched out in front of him. On his left ankle she could see the thick, ugly iron band that bound him to the house, sticking out from under the frayed hem of his robe. Where it rubbed against the ankle, the skin was chafed and raw, crusted, weeping clear fluid.

According to Withers, the shackle was an ingenious innovation, one of the best things to come out of Magical Law Enforcement in centuries. To Hermione, it looked positively medieval.

Charmed with an unbreakable curse, designed to kill him instantaneously if he left the equally charmed perimeter of his walls, it was meant to keep the wizarding world safe from dangerous criminals like Snape.

Also according to Withers, it was an invention that offered an all round better deal for everyone concerned. On the one hand, it enabled Snape to repay at least part of his debt to society, while on the other providing the Ministry with a much more humane solution to incarceration than guarding the prisoner in Azkaban.

That much was probably true. The idea of the wizard prison had always made her uncomfortable. As bleak as this place was, it had to be better than some cold, damp cell in Azkaban.

When at a wave of her wand the crate settled gently on the table in front of him, he looked up at her with a sneer. "I would offer you tea, but it appears I haven't got any. Pity. I suppose having a cozy chat reminiscing about the good old days shall have to wait."

"That's all right," she said stiffly, cursing herself for not being able to think of a more pithy reply. Doubtlessly a perfect comeback would come to mind tonight in her bathtub. "I have to go anyway."

"In such a hurry." He tsk-tsked. "Oh well. Don't let me keep you."

When there wasn't the slightest indication that he intended to get up, Hermione awkwardly half-turned to the door. "I'll see myself out, then." He ignored her completely, fixedly looking out the small, dirt-coated window. She hesitated, then turned and with hurried steps walked through the small living room and out the front door. With a sigh of relief, she closed it firmly behind her, glad that this was over and done with — at least for now.

-o.o.o-

Exactly four weeks later, she stood in front of his door again. Even though it was late afternoon, the sun was still high in the sky on this beautiful late-August day. Bracing herself, she rapped smartly against the door. This time, it opened immediately.

"Not you again," he said with a sneer. "Your superiors don't like you much, do they? The friend of the famous Harry Potter, reduced to running errands for the likes of Brewster Withers. And everyone had such high expectations of you."

"I like my job," she said through set teeth, raising her chin defiantly. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Well, do what you have come to do and get out. I'm not in the mood for your prattle."

"Fine." Pursing her mouth, she swept past him. If he wanted her out of here as quickly as possible — well, she would be only too happy to accommodate him.

When she returned from the vault a few minutes later, he had sat down in the living room, his head tilted against the back of the sofa, his eyes closed. He didn't open his eyes as she entered the room.

She took the opportunity to take a good look at him. What she saw caused an uncomfortable, uneasy twinge in her chest. He seemed…smaller than he had been as her teacher. In her memories, he was taller, more impressive. Looking at him now, it seemed likely that impression had had more to do with his larger-than-life personality than his actual physique.

Still — hard as it was to tell under those loose robes, it seemed to her that he was even thinner than he had then. Paler. Sallower. Dark shadows under his eyes.

He did not look well. Even half-reclining, he still seemed taut, tense, nervy. Of course he deserved punishment, but… She had a rough idea of how Muggle prisoners were treated. And while the Ministry might consider this "humane", it did not match up with her own ideas on the subject.

Sometimes those Muggle sensitivities were cursedly inconvenient.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she pulled a jar out of her pocket and set it down on the table in front of him.

His eyes slowly opened. "And what might this be?"

"Ointment," she said awkwardly. "For your ankle."

His eyes narrowed as his mouth curled into a sneer. "If you've run out of werewolves that need your pity, you may want to turn your attention back to house-elves. I'm certain there are much more deserving subjects on which to waste your sympathy."

"Pardon me," she snapped, stung. "I just thought…" It had seemed unnecessarily cruel to her to add physical pain to this bleak incarceration. The way he had been limping last month…

"Enlighten me, Miss Granger," he interrupted her. "Exactly what idea _did _you have about my arrangements with the Ministry? I brew them the potions they want, and they in turn keep me out of Azkaban. But make no mistake about it, this is still meant to be punishment. After all, I killed a man in cold blood." A bitter note swung in his voice at the last sentence. "So spare me your misplaced sympathy. I'm certain none of your superiors would appreciate it."

"Fine. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again." A second later, she slammed the door closed behind her, seething. What had she been thinking? Let the miserable git hurt. As he had said, he deserved it. He was a murderer.

Ye gods, she never learned, did she? Here she went again, not content to just leave well enough alone. Well, if he didn't want the salve, he could throw it away, for all she cared. She took a deep breath, exhaling sharply. No more of that. Next month, she would find someone else to do the potion pick up. She was _not _coming back here, not if there was any way to avoid it.

-o.o.o-

Yet four weeks later, there she was again, walking up Spinner's End, not entirely sure why. She hated him for what he had done. She hated everything he stood for. She did not want to see him. And yet…she_ did_.

Maybe it was because she liked puzzles. Except for puzzles she couldn't solve. And this run-down shack of a house was the only place she could possibly expect to find some of the missing pieces.

Severus Snape was in so many ways still a riddle. How does someone end up a traitor and a murderer? How could he have fooled Dumbledore for that many years? Why had he not even contested the charges laid against him? When it came to Snape, she had more questions than answers.

"Don't let him get to you. Don't let him get to you. Don't let him get to you." She repeated the mantra over and over as she made her way up the cobbled street.

But she needn't have worried. He opened the door without a word. As she followed him into the kitchen, she noted with a quickly suppressed, vindicated smile that his limp was much less pronounced. Apparently, he had found some use for the salve after all.

He stood by the table, motionless, watching her as she went about her business. It positively made the hair on her neck stand up to feel the cold gaze of those black eyes following her around.

"Well, here we are. Another month's work finished," she said with a too bright, too cheerful voice as she set the crate with the replacement supplies down on the kitchen table. She had slipped another jar of ointment into the supply crate when she had hauled it out of the vault — she would rather he find it there once she was gone.

He gave a short nod. "I shall see you in four weeks."

And with that, she was out the door. She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

The prisoner watched through the window as the girl left, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Did she have any idea how hard it was to simply let her come, do her job, and leave?

One of the few diversions he had during the month was seeing how big a rise he could get out of whatever Ministry minion had been sent to look in on him that week. They came every Wednesday for a five minute check. Usually some junior clerk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who happened to draw the short straw that week. Not many of them came more than once.

It had been a most welcome surprise to see her. She had been one of his least favorite students — the over-achieving, know-it-all friend of The Chosen One. Supposedly the brightest witch of her year. It had been…entertaining to watch her rise to his bait.

And then she had to go and be…_kind._

It had come as a surprise that she had not only noticed the sore on his leg, but had actually decided to do something about it.

It had made life just a small fraction more…bearable.

It hadn't felt right to goad her after that.

Besides, sometime over the last month, he had decided that since the Ministry had to send someone to collect the Wolfsbane, Granger was a better option than most. Unlike the burly men or the gawky, pimply boys barely out of their teens who constituted his usual Ministry envoys, she was a solid, healthy-looking girl. Pretty, even, in an unremarkable, fresh faced way.

And when she talked to him, she actually met his eyes, straight on, in spite of how obviously uncomfortable she was around him.

That, right there, was a novelty.

No, unless she proved too aggravating, he wouldn't do anything to keep her from coming back.

-o.o.o-

The day before Christmas Eve, Hermione looked at the calendar in her cubicle, biting her lower lip. Christmas had always been her favorite holiday. She had decorated her tiny flat to the hilt. The presents she had bought for everyone were piled up in a corner, wrapped in bright paper and tied with red ribbon. Two dozen Mince Pies waited in the pantry, the result of a baking spree over the last few days. She would take them over to Harry and Ginny's tomorrow. All the surviving Weasleys would come as well. The arrival of little James had gone a long way towards healing the wounds the war had left in that family.

Unfortunately, there was one more thing on the calendar before she could go and enjoy the holiday.

She sighed. Snape and Christmas did not seem to go together well at all. Oh well, better get it over with.

The visits had become habit by now. No longer did her heart beat in nervous anticipation when she knocked on his door.

October and November had passed without any further incident — the most conversation he had made was to inform her that the Aconite that month hadn't been first quality, and to make sure the Ministry had a talk with the supplier. It had all been rather…unexciting.

This meeting was no different. Come in, get the Wolfsbane, exchange it for supplies, all with a minimum of words and actual contact, the way it had been for the last few months.

Before she left, she awkwardly turned to him. "This is for you." She pulled a package out of her bag and held it out to him.

He made no attempt to take it.

"It's nothing much. Just a biography of Hengist of Woodcroft. It came out last year." She still wasn't sure why exactly she had decided to bring him a gift, except that there was some vague sense that it was simply wrong to go to someone's house this close to Christmas and not bring anything. And that there was just a hint of fellow feeling every time she looked at all those empty book shelves. It was one thing to place a man under house arrest, another to take all his books. "I ended up with a spare copy. It's well written. Very interesting, really. He was quite a character, that Hengist. And well, I just thought you might like it." She stopped, aware that she was babbling.

For an unguarded split second, raw hunger flitted across his face as his fingers twitched towards the package.

Then his hand jerked back as if stung. He spun on his heels and strode from the room.

When she followed him into the living room, he was standing by the heavily curtained window, ramrod straight, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. "Get out," he hissed, not looking at her. "I told you, I don't need your charity."

"Oh, _please_," Hermione said in exasperation. "It's Christmas. I happen to _like _Christmas. I happen to like giving presents at Christmas. I just thought you might like the book. It has nothing to do with bloody charity. So you can…_bugger off_." She tossed back her hair and gave him what she hoped was a scathing look.

She was just about to turn and leave when she saw the corners of his mouth twitch upward. "After all your time in the company of Ronald Weasley, I would have expected you to have a more…impressive vocabulary of swear words."

"I do." She looked at him defiantly. "I'm just too much of a lady to use it."

Another twitch of his mouth. "I have nothing with which to reciprocate your…non-charity."

"I wasn't expecting anything." She paused for a moment, gathering her courage. "But as a matter of fact…I've been wanting to ask you…I mean, that's not why I gave you the….nothing to do with that at all…I was just wondering…"

"Get to the point," he commanded.

"I would like to…." She swallowed. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd really like to learn how to brew the Wolfsbane. If you would just let me watch? It'd be so helpful, me working in the Werewolf Registry and all, and I'd…"

"Enough." He cut her off with a dismissive gesture. "Very well. Next month, be here at five a.m."

Hoping she wasn't looking like a pleased puppy, Hermione opened the door. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll be there. And Merry Christmas."

* * *

I owe a huge debt to Bellegeste for doing a lightning fast beta when I needed the chapter back, like, day before yesterday, and to ScatteredLogic, who adminned the story for the exchange and found some more boo-boos. All of the remaining ones are mine! 


	2. Puzzles

He got up at four, perfunctorily wondering what had possessed him to agree to let the annoying girl watch him brew. And then admitting to himself that he would have agreed to teach _Harry Bloody Potter_ if the boy had asked him, simply for a break from the relentless monotony that was his daily existence.

How…desperate. He grimaced as he dried his face with the rough hand towel.

This could be a long day.

-o.o.o-

She arrived promptly at five minutes to five, rubbing her hands together and stomping her feet as she waited on the doorstep. "Good morning," she greeted him, teeth chattering. "Thank you again for…"

"Yes, yes, yes," he interrupted her. "Shall we just get on with it?"

He led her into the kitchen, where he had pulled over the table against the counter. The burner and cauldron had been set up on the – much lower – kitchen table, which left him most of the counter to work on. "You can put your things down over there."

Hermione pulled out a notebook and pen before setting down her bag. "Do you mind if I take notes?"

"If you wish," he said ungraciously. "You may stand over here. If you are ready? — The first thing to do is to pulverize the moonstone…"

She took fastidious notes — what to watch for in terms of quality, how to prepare the ingredients, exactly what tools to use.

"…and then you grind the Aconite itself, until you have flakes about the size of…"

She had almost forgotten how good a teacher he really was, if he wanted to be. The few classes where he had actually demonstrated a potion instead of leaving them to learn mostly via trial and error had been fascinating to watch. His long, elegant fingers moved gracefully, perfectly coordinated, sure of what they were doing.

When the preparations were complete, he lit the burner with the touch of a button. Blue flames sprung to life. "Now you wait until the water has reached a temperature of 69 degrees Celsius before adding the dried wolf's blood…"

Shortly after nine o'clock, he turned down the burner and set a timer. "After you add the Luna Moth scales, it has to simmer for exactly 37 minutes." He motioned to the chair, now standing by itself in the middle of the room. "You may sit down if you like."

"That's all right. I don't mind standing," she lied.

"All I have to do now is take the zest off the kumquats. It's not complicated."

"If I may ask a question?" she asked nervously while he demonstrated.

"If you must."

"Is this the only potion you brew now?"

"The other 27 days of the lunar month, the Ministry has me brew Antipyretic Potion and Fortifying Tonic," he said blandly.

Those were potions so simple a first year could brew them. It was akin to asking Van Gogh to paint your bathroom walls a nice even puce. Hermione again felt that uncomfortable twinge in her chest. Try as she might, she could not help picturing herself in his position — completely cut off, walled in, isolated, with nothing to keep him busy for most of the month except the most mundane of potions. For a man of his intelligence it had to be hell.

"Where did you learn to brew the Wolfsbane?"

He gave her a hooded look. "Are you sure you want to know the answer?"

She swallowed hard, then nodded her head.

"The Dark Lord sent me to Bucharest for a few months to serve as an apprentice with a Master there. In the first war, as well as in this one, he had werewolves fighting on his side. It was in his interest to keep them in a condition where they could…obey orders even after Transformation. "

"Oh," she said in a small voice.

"Glad that you asked now, aren't you?"

For a moment, she had forgotten that she was with a Death Eater and a murderer. She didn't like the reminder. "No." She sighed. "I wish… But I suppose what I wish doesn't matter." She gave a bitter little laugh. "Do you know — those notes that the Order received? I hoped until the very end those were from you."

"And now you know that they were not."

"I suppose so. Though I still find it hard to believe that it was Draco." Those notes had been vital in bringing about Tom Riddle's downfall. After Malfoy had reproduced their contents verbatim in front of the Wizengamot, he had been cleared of all charges. "I guess I just never considered Malfoy that important. That he would be that deep in Voldemort's confidence."

It still rankled. For so long, those notes had given her hope that Dumbledore hadn't been a senile old fool after all, that he had not been that grievously mistaken in his trust in Snape. Malfoy's testimony had put that hope to rest once and for all. It had been a bitter pill to swallow.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Malfoy. A true hero of the wizarding world he turned out to be." His tone was bitingly sarcastic.

Hermione eyes narrowed. "Well, some people would think he is."

"Make no mistake," he said bitterly. "Draco Malfoy is loyal to no one but himself and his family."

Hermione's temper flared. "You're a fine one to talk of loyalty."

He continued as if he had not heard her. "He put on a good show, didn't he? I remember even Potter eating crow during that trial. 'Couldn't have done it without him.' Quite ironic, wasn't it?"

"So Harry was wrong about him," she said defiantly. "Dumbledore was wrong about you, wasn't he? I'd rather take Harry's kind of wrong any day." She felt her cheeks grow red. That had probably not been a good thing to say if she wanted to continue watching him brew the Wolfsbane. Even if it was true.

His eyes glittered dangerously. "Watch your mouth, Miss Granger."

"Well, you can't expect me to just…"

It all happened in the fraction of a second. As she gestured with an emphatic sweep of her arm, she made contact with an open jar lined up on the kitchen counter. With a loud clunk, the force of the impact sent the jar flying — right into the bubbling cauldron. Hermione whirled around, looked wild-eyed at the smoke suddenly starting to rise — and then found herself grabbed by her upper arms and spun around as Snape pulled her tightly against himself, shielding her right as the cauldron exploded in a spray of boiling hot, poison-green droplets. The force of the explosion forced Snape forward a couple of feet, nearly making him stumble.

When the roar and hiss of boiling liquid had died down, there was a moment of stunned silence.

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, while his arms were still holding her convulsively to him. "Are you all right?" She looked up to see his eyes closed, his face contorted in pain. "Oh Merlin, you're not. This is all my fault. Oh God. What's the matter? Let me see!"

She extricated herself and quickly stepped behind him, trying not to fall as the potion turned the floor slippery. "Your back!" The back of his robe was covered with potion — potion that would have been scalding hot when it hit him. Her hands shaking, she quickly Vanished the potion from the thinning wool and then liberally doused the back of his robe with cold water. Other than a stifled gasp when the cold water hit his back, he hadn't said or done anything. "Please, Sir, what do I do?"

"I think I should lie down." He pivoted sharply and headed back towards the living room and then up a narrow staircase.

"Sir? Please? Are you all right?" Hermione anxiously hovered behind him. If he should fall, would she be strong enough to catch him? She pulled her wand back out, just in case. "Please talk to me! How bad is it?"

He didn't answer, simply plodding along unsteadily until he reached the bedroom. It was as barren as the rest of the house. A narrow bed was lined up along one wall, a plain pine chest of drawers on the other. The window was half-blind, covered in grime.

"Here, let me help you." Hermione took him by the elbow and supported him as he slowly, painfully lowered himself, until he finally lay rigidly, face-down on the bed.

Her heart hammered as she knelt down next to him. What now? "Sir… I'm going to have to cut your robe. Just hold still." She slid her wand into the neck opening of his robe, then pulled up, neatly severing the fabric. As carefully as possible, she made her way down, following the line of his spine. Trying to get the robe off him otherwise would require too much movement. Oh Merlin, he had to be in so much pain…

"Sir, I'm just going to check…"

His breathing was rapid and shallow. When she reached out haltingly to touch his neck, the bare skin was clammy and cold under her fingers; she could feel his pulse, fast and thready… Was he in shock? What was one supposed to do again?

After wavering a moment, she started gingerly peeling the soaked fabric away from his back. She stopped after just a couple of inches. His skin, an angry, mottled red, was already starting to rise into large blisters. "Oh no." Her voice caught. This was beyond anything she knew how to handle. "You need a Healer for this."

How was she supposed to get a Healer? He couldn't leave the house, and most Healers, she knew, couldn't care less about some Death Eater's injuries. And the Ministry, if it took action at all, would take forever… He needed help now. She could go to an apothecary, but what should she get? This seemed beyond the scope of a simple Burn Paste. "Sir, I don't know what to do. _Tell me what to do._"

"Pomfrey." His voice came muffled from where he had buried his face against one arm. "Get Poppy Pomfrey."

"Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione sat back on her heels, taken by surprise. _Yes. Of course. _The matron had taken a job at St. Mungo's after the headmaster had died. The Artifact Accident Department. Exhaling with relief, she got up quickly. "All right, Sir." She awkwardly put her hand on his arm. "You just keep still. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Sprinting out of the back door, she Disapparated as soon as she was outside the wards.

A moment later, she reappeared in the lobby of St. Mungo's. She practically flew up the stairs towards _Artifact Accidents_. It took her only a few minutes to find Hogwarts' former matron straightening up a supply cupboard.

"Madam Pomfrey…please, I need help…"

"You look fine to me, child," Pomfrey answered, looking her keenly up and down.

"Not me. Professor Snape. It's all my fault…" Hermione felt herself begin to tear up. "Please, he needs help, and he can't leave the house…"

"_Severus?_" Pomfrey gave her a sharp look. "I was under the impression that he was in Azkaban."

"That's what they want everyone to think. I suppose they figured that way no one would come looking for him. _Please_ come; I'll explain later," Hermione said desperately.

Pomfrey nodded. "Tell me what happened?"

"A burn. His back. A cauldron exploded. I think it's bad."

One thing she had always loved about the matron was that the older witch had never wasted a lot of time on asking questions when there was work to be done. Today was no different.

"Come with me, then." Hermione in tow, she hurried over to another cabinet and stuffed assorted jars, vials, and bandages into a bag. "You'll have to take me. I don't know where we're going. While we go, tell me what happened. And what in the world you are doing with Severus Snape."

-o.o.o-

"…so fast I didn't even have time to react. And he…he just stood in front of me." In the time it had taken them to get back to Spinner's End, Hermione had filled Pomfrey in on the events of the last few months and hours. "It should be me up there."

Her thoughts swirled in confusion as she hurried back up the stairs to his bedroom.

Why _had_ he done that? It just didn't make sense. Why protect _her_?

"Sir, we're back…"

He was still on the bed, his fingers digging into the corners of the mattress, his arms shaking with the strain. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head slightly. Hermione's stomach twisted painfully at the expression on his face.

"Severus." Pomfrey hurried over and knelt down next to his bed. "Miss Granger here tells me you had a run-in with a rabid batch of Wolfsbane." She made a clicking noise with her tongue. "Well, let's have a look, shall we?" She carefully lifted the flap of fabric off his back, looked for a moment, then gently put it back down.

Her voice grew soft as she put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Severus, but I'm going to put you under for this."

"No," he said in a flat, hoarse voice. "I prefer to be in command of my faculties."

"Don't be daft. I can't imagine anyone going through that kind of pain if they don't have to." Pomfrey took a vial from her bag and removed the stopper. A tap of her wand, and the stopper had Transfigured into a drinking straw. "Here, drink this."

He gave her a hard look.

With a sigh, the matron stretched out her hand and ran it lightly over his hair. "Don't fret yourself. You just go to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll feel much better. I'll take care of you. I promise."

He closed his eyes with a soft sigh of acquiescence. "Go on, then."

Still stroking his hair, Pomfrey lifted the straw to his lips, and he emptied the vial obediently. Within a minute, his muscles unclenched and his body sagged, the tight lines around his eyes and mouth relaxing. He was unconscious.

The matron turned to Hermione, who had watched the display of tenderness with bewilderment. "Don't you give me that look," she said with asperity. "He can go back to being a murdering traitor tomorrow. Right now he's just someone who needs help."

"Of course." Hermione pulled herself together. "What do you want me to do?"

For the next quarter of an hour, Hermione poured on ointment while Pomfrey slowly worked the fabric off his back.

She gasped when the robe finally came off. The burn ran from his shoulders almost down to the small of his back. It looked horrid. In spite of Poppy's best efforts, the skin over some of the blisters had torn away, leaving behind ugly, raw, liver colored sores. In other spots the skin was a bloodless, dead looking white.

Pomfrey looked up from where she was working. "It looks worse than it is. It will feel tight for a month or two, and there might be a bit of scarring in some of the areas where the burns are the deepest. But he'll be all right."

"I'm glad," she said in a small voice, feeling faint with relief. She had some idea what a wound like this would have meant in the Muggle world. Being a wizard certainly had its advantages.

"Well, let's see…" Pomfrey had walked over to her bag. "Yes, this should do… Poor Severus. I'm glad he won't be awake for this."

Hermione looked hesitantly at the matron. "Did you…do you know him well?" The nurse had seemed so…_familiar_ with him.

"Does anyone really know him well?" There was a tinge of bitterness in her voice. "No, not really. But I knew his mother." She poured the contents of one vial into one of the jars, then added a pinch of a pale lilac powder.

"Eileen Prince?" Hermione said in surprise.

Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. "You know about her?" She stirred the contents of the jar together with a wooden stick.

"Not much more than the name."

"She was in my year." She smiled. "We got Sorted right after each other. Pomfrey and Prince. We both ended up in Ravenclaw. I liked her well enough. She and I and Phyllida Snape became good friends. Mind you, the Princes weren't very happy with her being chummy with a half-blood and a Muggle born. — Now watch, you'll have to do this later. I assume you'll be staying to take care of him?"

Hermione nodded. "Of course." _Phyllida Snape? _

After casting a quick antiseptic spell on her hands, Pomfrey began to gently smooth the pungent ointment over his back, slowly and methodically working her way down. "Where was I? Oh yes. That's how Severus here came to be, you see. After Eileen left Hogwarts at eighteen, she went to visit Phyllida and met her brother. Tobias. They fell madly in love and were married just three weeks later. It was all wildly romantic." Pomfrey smiled to herself. "I was a guest at their wedding. The Princes didn't come, of course. It was the scandal of the season. A Prince, marrying a lowly Muggle… Severus was born right before their first anniversary. I was invited to the Christening, as well."

She touched the unconscious man lightly on the upper arm. "You were an adorable baby, you know?" she said, before looking back up at Hermione with a grin. "Wouldn't he just hate to hear me talk like this? — We met for lunch in Diagon Alley a couple of times after that, just to catch up. Our lives were rather busy at the time, you understand. She had the baby; I was training at St. Mungo's…

"They lived with his mother for a while, until they were able to afford the down payment on a small house somewhere. But Eileen seemed happy enough with her lot. I didn't see her again until a couple of years after that. Until she got sick." Her face sobered. "Ovarian cancer. They didn't catch it until it had spread. Some things even the wizarding world can't cure." After this many years, Hermione could still hear the pain in her voice. "We did what we could. It wasn't enough. She passed away when Severus was four."

She stood up briskly and walked over to the dresser. "Let's see if he has something to wear." The contents of the drawers were meager. A couple pairs of underpants, a second robe, two long gray nightshirts. _"Pshaw." _With a wave of her wand, she Transfigured one of the night shirts into a pair of pajama bottoms. "Sometimes Muggles have the better idea. — Did you see any tea tree oil in the kitchen? I forgot to bring that. We'll be all right without it, but if you can find some…"

"I'll look. Call me if you need me." Hermione found herself reluctant to go. She wanted to hear more. So what had happened to him after his mother had died? Had his father raised him? It seemed decidedly strange to imagine her oh-so-Slytherin Potions master as a small boy, being raised by a Muggle.

When she reached the kitchen, she looked at the mess with a sigh. A quick wave of her wand took care of the sticky, drying potion that covered the floor. The counters were still littered with the remainders of their brewing that morning. Quickly, she surveyed the bottles and jars lined up on the counter. No tea tree.

She opened a cabinet door under the counter. Not here, either. She tried the one on the other side of the sink. Empty, except for a single pot and a bottle of washing-up liquid. Two sets of cutlery and a rusty can opener rattled around in one of the drawers, the other held mouse droppings and a none-too-clean kitchen towel.

The hanging cabinet to the left yielded only a few more potion ingredients on the top shelf — none of them what she was looking for — and two plates, two mugs, and a small bowl on the bottom one. A quick survey of the shelf on the right revealed a dozen cans of baked beans, a couple packets of rolled oats, and a bottle of multivitamin pills.

Hermione took it out and looked at it, a bitter twist to her mouth. It should come as a relief, she supposed, that the Ministry at least didn't intend for him to die of _scurvy_. Ye gods. Small wonder he looked so sickly, if this was all he ever got to eat.

She turned around with determination and walked back up the stairs. Pomfrey had cleaned and straightened the bed, and was just casting a warming spell on the thin blanket she had pulled up to Snape's waist. Hermione looked at the still, unconscious man. She was glad that he wasn't suffering, but he looked…limp. Lifeless. It made her shiver. _Please be okay_, she thought.

"No tea tree oil. But I can get that at a Muggle Chemist's. I need to go shopping anyway. There's nothing to eat in the house." She took a deep breath. "And I'll have to inform my boss that he has two days to somehow come up with 237 doses of Wolfsbane Potion on the free market." She was _not_ looking forward to that interview.

Pomfrey nodded. "He'll be hungry when he wakes up. You'd better stock up. He'll need lots of protein and extra calories with an injury like this. And lots of fluids. And don't forget about the tea tree oil. I'll stay with him until you get back."

-o.o.o-

Two hours later, the two women were sitting next to Snape's bed, on the bench that Pomfrey had Transfigured from the kitchen chair, sipping tea from chipped mugs.

"He looks better already." The angry red of the burns was starting to fade. Some of the skin had a dry, taut look to it; other parts were still oozing clear fluid.

"He should sleep for at least another hour or so. By the time he wakes up, the pain should be bearable." Pomfrey had spent the last half an hour giving Hermione detailed instructions on how to care for her patient. "By tomorrow, he'll only need the treatment three times a day instead of every hour. So you'll be able to return to work, as long as you check in on him during lunch."

"I will. It's the least I can do."

Pomfrey leaned forward slightly, eyeing her patient. "Well, this certainly brings back memories."

"You must have taken care of him many times, over the years..."

"Oh, quite. I had him up in the hospital wing often enough. Always getting into scrapes, that boy. He and some of the other students didn't get along. They used to take turns making more work for me. Even if I do have to say that Severus seemed to get the short end of the stick more often than either of them."

"Did his father ever come to visit him?" She wanted to find out more about his family. It was a stupid question, she knew — luckily Pomfrey seemed too lost in memories to notice. Hogwarts didn't seem to think that parents needed to be notified unless it became necessary to transfer their offspring to St. Mungo's. She had been rather glad that her own parents had never found out that she had spent three weeks as a_ rock_, and no one had bothered to tell them…

"He hardly ever had visitors at all. He's always been a loner. Kept everyone at a distance. Mind you, I can't say I blame him. After the sort of childhood he had — first his mother gone, then his father, and being raised by Decimus Prince… Not anyone's idea of a loving father figure, that man. Seemed to treat Severus more like some kind of ugly stepchild. There was money enough in the Prince household, but Severus had to content himself with second hand robes and books borrowed from the school's supplies. No, he had good reason to think he couldn't trust anyone but himself."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "What happened to his father?"

"Shortly after her death, Decimus – Eileen's brother, you understand – came to their house." Her eyebrows shot up in sudden understanding. "This house, maybe, hm? Anyway, Toby was at work. Phyllida was watching Severus when Decimus broke down the door and demanded his nephew. There was a terrific row. Phyllida tried her best, but he was too strong for her. And once the Princes had the boy, there was no way to get him back. The Ministry would never have sided with a Muggle father." She smiled bitterly. "I didn't see Severus again until he started Hogwarts."

"And Tobias?" she asked softly.

"Heartbroken, of course. What did you think? Losing first his wife and then his son? And things only got worse after that. The Princes were one of the first families to align themselves with Him-who-must-not…with Voldemort. Phyllida and her brother started to receive threats — nasty messages, dead animals on their doorsteps. Sometime in the late seventies, they disappeared. I hope she decided to run away, to take Toby to some place safe, far away from England. But I'm not sure." She gave Hermione a watery smile. "I never heard from her again. But I can hope, can't I?"

Reaching over, Hermione gave her hand a soft squeeze. "I'm sorry."

"I think that maybe knowing all that I was a little too sympathetic with Severus the first few times he came to the hospital wing. After that, he would only come when it was absolutely necessary, or if his Head of House or Albus made him. As a child _and_ as an adult. He used to drive me spare — I'd see him limping around or obviously not feeling well, and if I asked him what was the matter, he'd just brush me off. Too proud for his own good."

"And yet," Hermione said softly, "when he needed help today, he told me to get you."

"Yes." Pomfrey sighed. "Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe we all should have. I've always had a soft spot for him, but – to tell the truth, I could see why people found him a hard child to like. Cynical, arrogant, his tongue at least as effective a weapon as his wand. As soon as anyone tried to get closer, he'd roll up like a hedgehog, and all anyone within an arm's length would get was a handful of prickles. I guess he'd decided by then that people were just bound to be a disappointment, so why bother?"

Pomfrey drained the last dregs of her tea and put the mug down on the top of the dresser. "I wonder if his life would've turned out any differently if someone hadn't let a few prickles discourage them. If someone had made the effort to get to know him. I think he could have used a friend." She stood up, stretching after sitting for so long. "But then, Albus probably got the closest of anyone, and look what it got him…I still can't say I understand any of that. I just never thought that Severus—" She dropped her hands to her sides in a gesture of bewilderment. "Well, I'd better get back to work. I've taken off too much time as it is. I think you'll do fine from here on. Let me know if you have any trouble."

-o.o.o-

After Pomfrey had left, Hermione sat by Snape's bed, chewing her lip.

He would still be asleep for at least half an hour. That was plenty of time to face some very inconvenient truths. As she looked down at the motionless man, she felt the familiar twinge in her chest. She had never liked him when she had been his student. Respected him, yes. But _liked_? So what had brought her to this?

Hermione leaned forward, studying his face intently. It was an unlovely face, all sharp lines and beaky nose. Bitter and harsh, even in his sleep.

She smiled. _A hedgehog_. The description fitted him. She had run into his prickles often enough.

So why did he make her feel like this?

She'd read about women who fell for convicts, had heard about "bad boy syndrome". She'd never thought that she would be one of them.

But the truth was that there was attraction. Attraction that she intended to do nothing about. She had too much sense to think that there was anything normal or healthy about feeling attraction for someone like him.

He's a convicted murderer, she reminded herself. He had freely admitted to that before the Wizengamot. He had even admitted it to her. Nothing was going to change that. Even if she had a hard time reconciling that image with the one of his arms around her, using his own body as a shield. It didn't fit. But, she thought bitterly, maybe some puzzles simply weren't meant to be solved.

It was too easy to forget what he had done when she was faced with this pale, thin man, so proud, bitter, desolate. It had been much easier to hate him in the abstract. But now… When she looked at him, something inside of her responded. It wasn't anything she could help, the way he touched her heartstrings. Even if it was wrong, it was real.

Slowly, she stretched out her hand. Her pulse sped up wildly, as if she was doing something forbidden, taboo.

Hesitantly, she put the tips of her fingers against his cheek. _"Sir…"_ When there was no reaction, she let her fingers travel over his face, tracing the lines of his cheek bone, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

She thought Harry's losses had been terrible. So had Snape's. And Harry had at least had friends who had stood by him through thick and thin. It didn't sound as if there had ever been anyone for Snape, not since he was four years old.

Her heart in her throat, she let her hand rest across his forehead. Slowly, gently, she stroked his hair, the way Pomfrey had done.

She could imagine now why he had joined the Death Eaters. Maybe he had thought of it as a way to win the approval of his uncle. To show Decimus that he was worthy of being called a Prince, half-blood though he was. Maybe it had been to finally find some place where he _wouldn't_ be alone, some place where he would be treated as valued, as equal. It would be an easy trap to fall into.

But she wouldn't think of the Death Eater today. Today, she would keep in her mind the image of him holding her tightly while a cauldron showered his back with boiling liquid. Today she would remember the way he had saved Katie Bell, had saved Dumbledore – Dumbledore! – from the Horcrux spell; the way he had blocked Quirrell, had protected the Stone, had watched over them, again and again and again. He couldn't be all bad. Not after doing all that.

Her heart contorted painfully as she cupped the crown of his head with her hand, still stroking softly.

Pomfrey was right. He could go back to being a murderous traitor tomorrow.

* * *

Thank you for reading so far! The last chapter should go up on Monday. 


	3. Filling in the Blanks

Disclaimer: It's all JKR's.

Part of this section hasn't been Britpicked/Beta'ed, since I added a portion due to Bellegeste's comments on the draft before handing the story in to the exchange. Any mistakes are mine.

* * *

When his eyes finally fluttered open, she sat up in her seat. "Sir?"

He looked at her blankly.

"You were injured. Madam Pomfrey gave you something to help you sleep through the worst of it."

"I remember." His voice was still raspy and hoarse. "I…was brewing Wolfsbane. The cauldron exploded…You could have killed us both."

Hermione nodded miserably. "I'm so sorry."

"You _should be_," he growled. "Irresponsible child!"

Hermione lowered her head, feeling wretchedly guilty as she saw the tight lines of pain around his eyes. He could call her every name in the book if he wanted to, and she would deserve them all. "I know. That was…unforgivable. I should never have…not around a boiling cauldron."

"No, you shouldn't have," he said harshly. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again. "Where is Pomfrey?"

"She had to go back to work, I'm afraid. But she told me what to do. Are you in a lot of pain?"

"It's...not as bad as it was."

"Madam Pomfrey left an analgesic, but she said to take it on a full stomach, or it would make you sick. Do you think you could eat?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Good," she said briskly. "I'll be right back."

She returned a short time later. A bowl of tomato soup with a poached egg floating inside, a piece of buttered bread, and a glass of apple juice. It had seemed best to start with something fairly light. "Here you are, Sir. I hope this is all right." She slid the bench over next to his bed and set down the plate and glass.

She watched as he unconsciously wet his lips. "Where did you get this?"

"I went shopping while Pomfrey was here."

"I can't…"

"Yes, you can," she interrupted him firmly. "I feel terrible enough. Please let me do _something." _She handed him the spoon. "Eat. Please."

After a moment's hesitation, he finally pulled the bowl closer. He ate slowly, slightly propped up on one elbow, an expression on his face that almost hurt to watch. _It was just tinned soup and an egg… _Hermione turned away as she felt her eyes begin to water. She managed to busy herself at the dresser, getting his potion ready, until he had finished eating.

Once he had taken the pain potion, she picked up the pot of ointment. "I'm afraid this is going to hurt…" She dipped out some of the potion and began to work it across his back, as gently, carefully, and quickly as she could. Even so, she could feel him tense under her hands, could feel him flinch as her fingers worked over particularly painful areas.

When she finished treatment, they both let out the breaths they had been holding. By the time she had put the lid back on the jar, his eyes were starting to drift shut.

She was about to tiptoe out and let him sleep when she heard his voice, uncharacteristically hesitant. "When you went shopping – did you happen to buy any tea?"

She smiled. "I did. Milk and sugar?"

"Please."

She nodded. "Give me just a few minutes."

-o.o.o-

When she came back, she watched as he cradled the warm mug, pausing with closed eyes to deeply inhale the fragrant steam before taking the first sip.

He looked up when he felt her eyes on him. "Next time, make it stronger," he ordered.

Hermione laughed. "Yes, Sir!"

For a couple of minutes, there was silence as they both sipped their tea. Then, "May I ask you something?" she said.

He groaned. "Not again. Look where it got us last time."

"Why did you do it? I deserved to get hurt. The whole thing was my fault."

He winced at the attempt to shrug. "I suppose because the wizarding world would get by much better without a Death Eater than without a Gryffindor war hero?"

Hermione's mouth pursed slightly. "Do you always have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Try and vex me."

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't believe that's what you were thinking, no."

He sighed. "Still a know-it-all. You tell me, then."

"Here's what I think," she said carefully. "I think you didn't think _anything_. There really wasn't time. You realized what was going to happen, and you simply reacted. And your reaction was to put yourself between me and danger. And furthermore, I think it wouldn't have mattered if it was Neville Longbottom or Harry himself instead of me. I think you would have done the exact same thing anyway."

"Hm," he grunted noncommittally.

"By the way, I never said thank you." She felt her cheeks color.

He raised an eyebrow. "And why would I deserve thanks for something that apparently didn't require any conscious thought on my part whatsoever?"

She gave an irritated little huff. "There you go again."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Very well then. You're welcome."

"And you're wrong, by the way. About the 'war hero' and all that. The wizarding world in general wouldn't miss me much more than you."

He cocked an eyebrow in mockery. "You. Hermione Granger, friend of the mighty Harry Potter. Forgive me if I don't believe this."

She grinned. "Brewster Withers, for one, would actually miss _you_ more. He got rather put out when I explained to him that he had to find his Wolfsbane elsewhere this month."

"He can hardly be considered representative."

"Still. Wizardom sees what the _Daily Prophet _wants it to see, for the most part. And to the_ Prophet _I was never anything but Harry's potential love interest. Once it became clear that his affections were firmly tied to Ginny Weasley — well, that was that."

"You fought in the Last Battle."

"So did most Order members. We were all mentioned in the small print, and we all got our Orders of Merlin, Third Class. Harry got the headlines. Which is as it should be." She shrugged. "After all he's been through, I don't begrudge him the attention."

"What's the famous Mr. Potter up to these days?" he asked diffidently.

She paused, taken aback for a moment. Well, yes, of course he wouldn't know. He'd been cut off from any news of the wizarding world for the last two years. "Married, to Ginny of course. They have a little baby boy."

"And Miss Weasley's brother?"

"You mean Ron? I don't see much of him any more. He took a job with Magical Games and Sports. Last I heard, he was dating Lee Jordan's younger sister."

"And Draco? Has anyone heard from him?" He had turned his attention to a loose bit of skin on his forefinger, his voice one of carefully studied indifference.

Hermione regarded him with slightly raised eyebrows. "I'm afraid not. After his mother died, he seems to have dropped off the face of the earth." She could see him stiffen, his eyes half closed. "Not that we ever heard much from him before that, but…"

"Narcissa is dead?" he interrupted her.

She gave him a questioning look. "Well, yes. After your trial, she and Draco moved to America. She was killed in an accident last year. That's the official story, anyway. There are plenty of theories — I'm so sorry," she interrupted herself as she watched the color drain out of his face. "She was a friend of yours, wasn't she?"

To her dismay, he started to laugh. It wasn't the kind of laugh she ever wanted to hear again — brittle-dry, bitter, acidic.

"Sir? What's the matter?"

"Do you know why I killed Dumbledore? Do you want to know?" There was a wild, maniacal look on his face as he spat out the words.

"Sir, I…"

"Because he asked me to! Because I'd been too clever for my own good, and I ended up swearing an Unbreakable Vow."

Hermione put a hand on his arm. "Please. You aren't making any sense."

He still had that crazed glint in his eyes. "I Vowed to keep Draco from harm." He laughed again. "Narcissa considered Azkaban very harmful."

"Shh." Hermione knelt down next to his bed and took his face in both of her hands. "Look at me, Severus. I don't understand. You need to start at the beginning." He stared at her wildly for a moment, eyebrows drawn together. "All right?" She waited as he closed his eyes and drew in a deep, ragged breath. When he nodded, she let her hands drop slowly. "Then tell me. Tell me what happened."

He exhaled slowly before starting to speak. "Narcissa came to me. She was…quite distressed. About a task the Dark Lord had set Draco. She asked my help. I was…flattered. And concerned. I'd heard nothing about this. I wanted to find out. So…" He ran his hand over his face. "I made a mistake. I ended up kneeling on the floor, making an Unbreakable Vow: to watch over her son as he fulfilled the Dark Lord's wishes, and to keep him from harm." His hand plucked restlessly at the sheet. "I was…so stupid," he muttered. "She added a third part. For me to finish the task, should Draco for some reason be unable to do so. Only later did I find out that that task was to kill Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat. She knew how an Unbreakable Vow worked. "So either you or Dumbledore had to die."

He nodded. "Yes." His voice sounded hollow.

Slowly, Hermione was feeling her way around his words, trying to make sense of all this. "So he asked you to let him die when the time came? To kill him yourself, if necessary?" It was exactly what she would have expected the headmaster to do in that situation.

"Yes. On the Tower — there was no other option. He was dying anyway, and how could I save him? There were plenty of Death Eaters willing to finish what Draco couldn't do."

"You didn't betray him…" she said in a whisper.

The fire rekindled in his eyes. "Never."

"But why didn't you ever say anything? Merlin, Severus, all these years… And how are we ever going to prove any of this?"

"Proof? You want proof?" He gave a short, angry laugh. "I can tell you exactly where at Hogwarts to find letters and a sworn statement, complete with Authenticity Charms, as well as a bottle of Pensieve memories. Did you really think that Dumbledore would just leave me to my fate?"

"Then why? Why did you never say anything?"

"Something neither he nor I considered. The second part of the Vow. To not let any harm come to Draco."

Understanding dawned slowly. "The Vow was still in force."

"Yes. The Vow would stay in force until Narcissa released me from it, or until her death."

"And she wouldn't release you…"

"Not if that meant her precious son was sent to Azkaban."

"Those messages that the Order received…"

"Came from me."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed, a quick smile flitting across her face before it turned serious again. "But how did Draco find out?"

"I told him."

"Of course. If everyone thought that _he _was the one who betrayed Voldemort to the Light… It was the only way you could keep him out of Azkaban." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Is there a way to prove that those notes came from you?"

"I kept copies in a safe place…"

Suddenly another thought hit her. "Why didn't Draco let anyone know? He must have known that you would be able to tell the truth once his mother had died?"

"Of course he did." Snape's voice was dry as a bone. "Why else do you think he disappeared? He would have assumed the Aurors would come looking for him once I was able to reveal my true loyalties."

"I never could stand that little snot!" Hermione said heatedly.

There was a small, bitter smile playing around the corners of his mouth.""Don't be too harsh on the boy. The thought of Azkaban makes much stronger men quaver."

She sat back on her heels. "So what do we do now?"

Severus Snape looked at the girl in front of him with narrowed eyes. _We? _That was the second time she had used that word...

Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he would need help. Someone would have to retrieve the evidence Dumbledore had left. Someone would have to go and approach the Ministry on his behalf. He wasn't fool enough to think that any of his minders would listen to him in the absence of conclusive proof.

During her years at Hogwarts, he had seen the relentless campaigns she waged to right real or imagined injustices. That kind of…ruthlessness would be what he needed.

Still, he could not let her. "Who among the Order members do you think would speak on my behalf?" Many of those he would have trusted had died in the war. Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt…

She looked taken aback. "Order members? I know plenty of people in the Ministry. And I can talk to Harry. He's still my friend. He'll help, if I explain to him."

"Potter?" His lip curled. "I doubt he could be moved to speak in my defense."

"You underestimate him," she said quietly. "He can admit when he's wrong. He certainly hated Draco almost as much as he hates you… He'll listen to me. Especially if I bring him proof."

"I cannot allow you to get involved," he said shortly.

"And why is that?"

"If your name gets tied to mine — even if I should get exonerated — it'll cost you your career. You must be aware this will not be something that'll blow over in a day or two. It will take months of back and forth, of hearings, appeals, trials, negotiations. Even if I'm cleared of the charges, there will always be those who'll think that where there's smoke, there's fire. By the time it's over, no one in the Ministry will want to touch you with a ten foot pole."

The girl looked at him determinedly. "_Bugger_ my career. To tell the truth, I don't really like that job much anyway. I'll find something else."

"You don't realize…"

"I realize perfectly," she interrupted him. "And don't try to stop me. You'll find that in some things, I can be at least as stubborn as you are." She gave him a smile that was bordering on the cheeky.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. "We'll talk about this tomorrow." The nervous excitement had left as quickly as it had come. Suddenly, he wanted her gone, wanted to be alone. His back hurt, and he felt bone tired. After two years spent in virtual isolation, there was simply…too much of her right now. He needed time. Time to pull himself together. "I think I'd like to sleep now, Miss Granger."

"All right." By some miracle, she seemed to understand. "Tomorrow, you can tell me where to find the letters. And we'll take it from there." She briefly put her hand over his. "But today, you just get better. Rest now." She paused at the door. "And please. Call me Hermione."

He didn't think he would actually be able to sleep, but he finally dozed off. She only slipped into the room for a few minutes on the hour, to bring him a drink and to rub more potion on his back before slipping out again.

As he drifted in and out of sleep, he could hear her singing to herself in the kitchen. There was something…strangely wonderful about that. About a woman singing in his kitchen… He fell back asleep with a smile on his face.

-o.o.o-

By late afternoon, his back had healed enough that he, with Hermione's help, was able to get up for a short while to use the bathroom.

Later, she brought him dinner. She had obviously put her time in the kitchen to good use. Pork chops, a green salad with home-made dressing, potatoes with butter and chopped parsley. Just the sight of it made his mouth water. And he was able to eat it sitting up on the edge of his bed. Wizarding medicine, he contemplated, really was a wonderful thing.

When she had cleared the dishes, she came back, bringing her bag with her and taking out a ball of yarn and some knitting needles. A wave of her wand, and the bench turned into a rocking chair.

He watched her through half-closed eyes as she sat, her head bent down, rhythmically rocking back and forth.

The click-click-click of her knitting needles was relaxing. He smiled as he recalled Minerva complaining in the staff room about upset house-elves and clueless young Muggle-borns trying to impose their values…

He remembered her differently from her school days. She had been such an irritating child, over-eager, shrill… She seemed much older now than she had then. Older than three years should have made her. War would do that to people, he supposed. She had seen more suffering and death than someone her age ever should.

There was nothing awkward about the silence in the room. It was oddly reassuring to look out of the corner of his eye and see another person there, someone warm and alive. Someone who, by now, thought well of him.

It had hurt badly when she had thrown her disappointment at him this morning. _"…Those notes that the Order received? I hoped until the very end those were from you." _

Yet it had made his chest feel tight that she _had _harbored hope until then. That in spite of the evidence, she had wanted to believe that he _was _a better man than she had been told.

He had seen the joy in her eyes when she had found out she had been right. He still could not fathom why that should matter so much to her, but it was clear that it did. She had been happy since then. Smiling to herself; a lightness in her step. And he had never heard her sing before…

It was a mystery, he thought as he drifted back off to sleep on the waves of Pomfrey's analgesic. But it was a very nice mystery indeed.

-o.o.o-

It took close to three months of concerted effort to get his sentence revoked. Three months of the girl running herself ragged, spending most of her free time working his case through the Ministry's bureaucracy.

At the intercession of Harry Potter — who had apparently taken a much more reasonable view than Snape would have expected — Magical Law Enforcement had recognized that, in view of his circumstances, he should be assigned a liaison. Hermione had promptly volunteered for the position.

It was…puzzling. He had never had friends. He certainly had not expected to acquire one while incarcerated at Spinner's End. And yet it seemed that that was exactly what had happened.

She had turned into a steady visitor, stopping by at least two or three times a week to update him on recent developments, usually toting a bag of groceries.

At least he could now reimburse her for her expenditures. When Hermione had gone to Hogwarts, she had found the letters and the bottle of memories — and a large leather bag filled with Galleons. It seemed Dumbledore had made provision for him in more than one way.

His living conditions had improved dramatically. Good food, clean clothes, books, someone to talk to.

He should have been happier. More content.

Instead he found himself afraid of hoping too hard, veering wildly between cautious anticipation and abject certainty that this was never going to end. That he would be stuck between these barren walls forever, that this was just a pipe dream, that the Ministry would never agree to set him free.

While Hermione was practically bubbling over with optimism and plans for the future. It could be…intensely trying at times.

On good days, there were quiet dinners together, talking strategy. Or just plain talking.

On bad days, she often found herself at the receiving end of a tongue lashing as he vented pent-up frustration and anger on the only person available, showering words on her that he wished he could take back as soon as they had left his mouth. More than once he had reduced her to tears.

It made him feel — ashamed. And yet he seemed unable to stop himself.

There was one day when he was certain that he had gone too far. After she had stormed out the door, he sat down heavily at the table, despair closing in like a thick wet blanket, threatening to smother him. If she did not come back… She always had before. But this time...

He sat quietly for a while, his head in his hands, wishing for a bottle for Firewhisky, feeling hollow and cold. As futile as it seemed – over the last few weeks and months she had begun to…matter. She had become more than a pleasant diversion, more than his ticket out of this place. On some days it seemed like her presence was the only thing anchoring him to sanity.

He looked at the other side of the table, where the last traces of the chair she had Conjured before dinner were slowly fading away, leaving an empty spot in more than one way. The idea that she might never walk through his door again was close to unbearable. _Old fool,_ he chided himself dully. _You're too old. Too worn. There are too many memories you carry around. Whatever would she see in you?_

It was right then that he heard the knock on the door.

When he opened it, there stood Hermione, traces of tears still on her cheeks. Carrying a chair.

She marched past him and put the chair down at the other side of the table. "There. That's better. I don't know why I didn't think of that before," she said with satisfaction.

"Just what exactly are you doing?"

She gave him a small, lopsided smile. "Unrolling a hedgehog."

Sometimes the woman was nigh incomprehensible.

"I suppose I should apologize," he said stiffly.

"Yes, you should." For a moment there was silence. She raised her eyes and gave him a measured look.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

Her smile lit up her eyes. "I know."

-o.o.o-

The trial was conducted in absentia, with Hermione and the late Albus Dumbledore's Pensieve memories giving testimony on his behalf. He spent the day restlessly pacing the house, trying to think of mindless little tasks to occupy himself, to keep himself from going mad.

She came bursting through the door in the late afternoon. "They dropped the charges! They'll be coming tomorrow to take off the shackle! You're going to be free!" And then threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

He stood awkwardly, feeling shivery and weak-kneed, an aching tightness in his chest, before slowly closing his arms around her, letting his face drop into the soft frizziness of her hair.

He was going to be free.

-o.o.o-

Hermione had made sure to be there when late the next evening Magical Law Enforcement showed up to free him from his confinement. Within minutes, she could have slapped them to where the Bong Tree grows. They rummaged around the house, removing everything that they deemed "state property" — including all the remaining brewing equipment and potions ingredients. Another few set to dismantling and moving the transport vault. Then it took a small eternity to take down all the wards from the doors, walls, and windows. By the time one of them finally turned to Snape, she was antsy with anticipation.

She retreated to a corner of the room, not wanting to embarrass him by the tears that were running down her face as he stretched out his thin, bare leg, and the Auror lifted his wand. It seemed to take forever until the ugly iron ring finally sprang open and rolled away, clanking on the linoleum floor.

She waited there until the door closed behind the Aurors. Snape was still sitting on his chair, his face impassive. He turned his head to face her as she approached.

Hermione knelt down on the floor next to him. She wanted to reach out, to touch his ankle, to run her hands over the red, irritated skin, to rub away the hurt. He would bear those scars for as long as he lived… But she knew better than to take such a liberty right now.

"You've been crying," he said quietly.

"Yes." She smiled at him, not caring that her eyes filled up with tears again.

He looked down at his leg, a lost look on his face. "I can leave the house now."

"Would you like to?"

He nodded. "I think I would."

He got up clumsily, and she followed him to the door. He stopped on the threshold, looking out into the empty, cobble-stoned street. The trees down by the river were moving in a light breeze… He felt his breath speed up as his heart beat a painful staccato.

Suddenly, he felt her hand slip into his, warm and soft against his own. His fingers closed tightly around hers. It would be sheer foolishness to think she would stay, now that the battle was over and all that was left was — him. But right now, he was glad that she was here.

One step. It would take only one step to finally move out of what had been his world for the last two years. One step out of the house. One step back into life. At least, now he had hope there would _be_ a life.

He looked down at the girl next to him, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the door.

* * *

A/N: ...And we know how Hermione feels about him, even if he doesn't yet. :-)

In Draco's defense, he would have expected Snape to hear much sooner (there seems to be a reasonable flow of information into Azkaban) - except he of course isn't in Azkaban, which Draco cannot know.

Thanks again to Bellegeste for beta'ing and Britpicking, to Scatteredlogic for adminning this for the exchange, to everyone else (especially GinnyW and Shiv) at the Exchange for making it a fabulous round, and to Servantofall36 for a wonderful prompt.

You can find the other exchange stories at community . livejournal . com / sshgexchange

Thanks so much for reading!


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